


and all for the want of a horseshoe nail

by evenmyneck (stopmopingstarthoping)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Battle, Found Family, Gen, It's a Wonderful Life, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:55:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22977241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopmopingstarthoping/pseuds/evenmyneck
Summary: Okay, fine, it’s a hallucination. He’s had worse."If you’re trying to show me weeping women and angry men, trust me, I’ve seen enough of it all in real life.” He chuckles. “If I continue down this ruinous path...yeah, I’ve heard all that too, in every possible combination. Really.”No, you buffoon. I’m trying to show you what would happen if you never existed."Sounds like a treat for everyone, but okay.”
Relationships: Blue Lions Students & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 154
Collections: Sylvain Week 2020!





	and all for the want of a horseshoe nail

It’s a thin line, sometimes, between actively throwing himself under a falling axe, on the one hand, and the mess and fog and chaos of a hard-fought battle on the other, isn’t it? A fine distinction, really, between working himself so hard that his hand slips on his lance, that the sharp twist he needs to avoid an archer’s arrow is just that millisecond too slow. It’s a half-step between being too tired to dodge the blow and wishing for it. Sometimes, it’s the same thing. Maybe.

Looking at the mess he's made of his life, at the sickly trouble that bubbles up everywhere he steps, Sylvain can’t help but think things would just be easier for everyone if he wasn't there. He's a constant irritation; he's sand crunching through gears that would otherwise turn smoothly.

It would just be easier for everyone. Maybe that includes him.

~*~

_Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?_

A piping voice in stern tones wakes Sylvain. There’s blood everywhere, as usual, and the battlefield is eerily silent. Everyone’s gone. Have they left him for dead? A sardonic laugh bubbles up from his chest, and he thinks, _Good_ , before unconsciousness claims him again.

The voice sounds again.

_Wake up. There isn’t time for your laying about._

_I want to show you something!_

“Oh, is this a cautionary tale about what’ll happen if I don’t get my indiscretion-committing act together?” Sylvain rakes a hand through his hair and dangles a casual arm behind his head, but it all feels airy and less substantial than usual. He must still be light-headed from the battle. But how is he all cleaned up already? And back in his….school uniform?

Okay, fine, it’s a hallucination. He’s had worse.

“If you’re trying to show me weeping women and angry men, trust me, I’ve seen enough of it all in real life.” He chuckles. “If I continue down this ruinous path...yeah, I’ve heard all that too, in every possible combination. Really.”

_No, you buffoon. I’m trying to show you what would happen if you never existed._

“Sounds like a treat for everyone, but okay.”

~*~

Dying would hurt, probably. Blades and arrows and stinging spells hurt. But fighting hurts too. It hurts to drag a blade through someone else’s flesh, no matter how many times he’s done it; no matter how many times he tells himself it’s killed or be killed out there. There’s no choice, really—he’s not about to let any of his friends fall into danger.

_Why aren’t you worth the same care and protection you give others? Why do you constantly take too many risks? Why does it make sense that you are the last priority, always?_

Sylvain doesn’t answer. He’s been asked this question before, and has always been able to deflect it.

He knows, deep down, that making himself the target, deciding he’s worth less than all the other “units” on the battlefield...it would mean that Miklan was right. That there had been something wrong with him all along. That what had happened to Sylvain was _fair_ , no matter how much it had hurt, how much it still hurt. Sylvain lives up to being horribly flawed, because it makes the world make sense. It snaps everything into focus. If Sylvain isn’t, deep down, a bad person—if his brother wasn’t right for singling him out? It makes the world a complicated, messy place, where Sylvain can’t always understand people’s motivations for what they do, and where good people lose. No thanks.

Everything goes hazy for a moment, and Sylvain wonders, for a brief moment (one that’s more panicked than he expected, honestly), if this is the end. But a tiny green-haired woman, barefoot and furious, frowns at him and yanks his hand into her own. The source of the voice, maybe. Sylvain doesn’t have time to think about it before his vision goes blurry again and everything around him changes, replaced by a castle he knows all too well, twin banners of Faerghus and Fraldarius flapping merrily.

 _Okay, okay, more hallucination. This is definitely more entertaining than bleeding out on a battlefield anyway_ , Sylvain thinks, with the usual, comforting amount of insolence, until he sees a Kingdom priest trudging up the steps of the Fraldarius castle. It’s unmistakably Bishop Moineau, and he’s only visited Fraldarius territory one time that Sylvain remembers. It had been notable at the time.

Wow, whoever this is is hitting him with Glenn’s death, as he’s (maybe, probably) facing his own? _Dick move, lady._ But Sylvain doesn’t seem to be terribly in control of the situation, so he just relaxes and lets it play out in front of him. 

_Not so fast, you indolent fool._

It’s jarring, how quickly Sylvain feels the stone path under his feet. Ever adaptable, he stuffs his hands in his pockets, enjoying the feeling of being upright and not stabbed; it’s pretty good. 

Something’s not right, though, and his head absolutely spins when he attempts to trot casually up the front steps outside, and they materialize into one of the winding staircases inside, leading from the first floor to the second. He nearly trips, and looks around to see if anyone’s noticed. For that matter, has anyone noticed him in general? It’s got to look weird, and— 

_No. No one can see you. You are here to observe. Move along, now._

Sylvain ignores her, and runs his palm along the stone wall. It feels solid, almost more so than his own fingers. It’s _weird_. 

The there-but-not-there feeling persists, and he walks down one of the hallways, tentatively, until he spots Ingrid through a doorway. She’s standing with her back to him as the sun rises. 

Ingrid.

Sylvain remembers this day, and he wants to look away. But the vengeful little spirit by his side wrenches his chin so he’s forced to see.

_She can’t see you. Or hear you. Look._

Sylvain knows what’s going to happen now. Ingrid is going to cry. Deep, wrenching tears of grief that don’t seem to bring any relief, because things are too immediate and sharp. Ingrid is looking out the castle window, and the sun is coming up, sky stained brilliant shades of purple and orange, a beauty that’s a jangling dissonance with this day; he remembers that part too.

Sylvain’s throat tightens—he recalls walking down the hall, hearing Ingrid crying, and coming in. It had been unwieldy and painful. Ingrid hadn’t flung herself into his arms like a storybook, and he hadn’t patted her hair and soothed her tears away.

They’d sat side by side, fists clenched on their thighs, while Ingrid talked about Glenn in a tight voice. Sylvain had nodded, and met her eyes a couple of cautious times. She’d cried, he’d given her a handkerchief and a hug that had felt thin and insufficient. He’d had no wise words. That had been it.

But today, she’s alone. And she is staring out the window, not crying.

_She has learned not to cry. She is learning that lesson again today._

Sylvain looks at Ingrid, with no one to sit awkwardly while she weeps. He’s still convinced she’s better off.

_Ugh. You really are stubborn, aren’t you?_

The scene changes again, and they’re back at the monastery. Of course.

~*~

Felix.

“Get up.” It’s clipped but loud; Felix is yelling the words at another student. 

“Coward. Fear will get you killed.” Felix readies his stance again as he spits the words toward the ground, where the other student is slowly climbing to her feet. Sylvain’s heart sinks as he sees her red hair and delicate features.

“Fight me.”

Annette hesitates a split second too long, and Felix brings his training sword down on her hand. Her fingers open and the sword drops; her eyes well with tears. 

He’d struck hard; too hard; there was no learning in it, only force and pain and injury. It reminds Sylvain of his father, and it makes him sick.

“I’m sorry, Felix! I’ll practice harder. I mean it. I promise!” 

Felix just turns away.

That just doesn't make any sense. Felix _adores_ Annette. He would never do that. There’s something missing, and Sylvain’s own vision blurs, and not through the doings of his creepy little tour guide for once. He doesn’t want to admit that something might be him, but maybe it is. 

"I made promises with someone else—with other people—once."

"What happened?"

Felix throws his practice shield into the storage area and its discordant clang sounds loudly in the quiet room. The only other sound is a faint sniffle from Annette.

"You can't count on other people. That's what happened." He whirls on Annette. “Don’t trust me to be easy on you. Don’t trust anyone. You’ve got to learn to take care of yourself.” 

Reflexively, Sylvain hides his recoil behind a smirk. Even though he’s been told he’s invisible, it’s too practiced a reaction for him to be able to stop himself. 

_“I thought these were supposed to be ‘scenarios where I never existed,’ not ones where I got myself killed."_

_He is not talking about you._

Sylvain thinks of Glenn, and Dimitri, and Felix’s father, and looks away. He blinks, and the scene changes.

~*~

Ashe.

Sylvain sees a battlefield, a thin figure with silvery hair, and scoffs. _"Oh, come on. I'd just met him when we started at the monastery. He barely knows me."_

A swordswoman descends, and Sylvain suddenly remembers this battle. The emerald-haired sprite makes him watch this play out; apparently when you’re incorporeal slamming your eyes shut does absolutely nothing; who knew?

Sylvain isn’t there to catch the sword’s blade with his axe and shove the knight back. Ashe scrambles out of the way, but it’s too late. She strikes him right on the hamstring, and it’s only three shimmering crescents of Wind that keep Ashe from meeting his end right then and there. It’s hard to watch. But Sylvain really does have no other choice. 

_“Ok fine, but how many people have I killed? Injured? Is saving one really that important?”_

But it’s _Ashe_ , and Sylvain sees his eyes again, staring up from the wet dirt of the battlefield as it rains. Ashe starts to shudder and cry, through his clenched teeth and his efforts not to. Mercedes runs over to him, droplets streaming down her hands and face. 

To the extent that he breathes, in this—wherever he is, Sylvain’s breath is coming short. This is bad. 

The next scene isn’t any better. It’s the monastery again.

Ashe struggles again and again to take a proper bow stance, but the first few times he simply can’t. By the next few flashes of insight, he’s doing it, but it makes him white with pain and Sylvain’s newest friend helpfully shows him some instances of Ashe vomiting into a waste-barrel outside the training grounds. 

Sylvain, not for the first time, wonders at Ashe’s grit. 

_“He’s resilient; he’s not giving up. He didn’t need my help.”_

_He would suffer needlessly without you. Is that not enough?_

~*~

The same blur and sharpen happens again, but everyone's older. They’re all together, in a communal dining hall Sylvain knows all too well. Which is good, but when Sylvain scans everybody, his stomach drops.

Dimitri. Sylvain knows it all went wrong with Dimitri, and when he hears his voice, pitched low in a growl, he looks up. Dimitri storms off, and Sylvain feels the tightness in his gut as though it's really happening again. 

Sylvain can’t make out any of the words for some reason, and it’s exhausting straining and failing to understand. Felix says something—something shitty by the look of it, and Sylvain isn’t surprised. Dedue stands and glowers, and Felix juts his chin at him in challenge.

Sylvain scoffs. _"Whatever. I'm sure they'll work it out."_

Felix shoves hard at Dedue’s chest, and he looks like he means it. His fingers wrap eagerly at the sword by his side, and it slides a few centimeters from its sheath. Ingrid looks at Dedue like she doesn’t know him, much less trust him. Mercedes gets in the middle, and Ashe stomps away after Dimitri. Annette looks like she wants to start crying.

 _Saints, we've been at each other's throats, but never this bad. "This isn't my fau— "_ he starts, but falters and trails off. 

Maybe it is.

~*~

_Would you like to see your home?_

Sylvain sighs, unable to hide his growing frustration behind the usual flippant tones, and a growl hums under the words _. "Do I have a choice?"_

The flag of Sreng flies from the central turret, and the surroundings are mangled. It's a recent takeover, but not that recent, judging by the language he hears from the common folk in the castle yard. It's an odd mixed dialect, and Sylvain catches most of the words, but the Sreng influence is strong. 

There is no trace of House Gautier. Sylvain looks down at the earth and realizes it's not Faerghus soil any longer, and something in him snaps. He wheels on the diminutive mischief maker, fists clenched. 

_"I'm not that important!"_ He yells the words and they echo out into space, into the nothingness of wherever he is. Goddess, the idea that his single existence would make a difference like this is—it’s madness, and he’s calling her out on it, whoever she is. 

_“This is bullshit.”_ But his words are lost to what feels like a maelstrom around him.

The war room. Rufus and Rodrigue. 

"Gautier territory is lost." The words rasp out slowly, full of regret, as the two men stare at a map laid out on a table in front of them.

"Miklan? León?"

"Gautier’s battalions won’t follow them. And they can't wield the Lance. The rest are too young."

“It's Fraldarius then, that must hold the line.”

Rodrigue just nods, resolute.

An idle thought dances through Sylvain’s mind. _The rest?_ How many Gautier children were there in his absence? He feels a sting, wishing for siblings, someone to grow up with who—who isn’t Miklan.

A series of quick flashes, then: a doctor speaking solemnly to his father, a casket lowered into the earth; a procession of redheaded children; his father in front of the altar with a woman who isn’t his mother.

She’s young—really young—and Sylvain puts the pieces together and swallows hard.

 _Are you still jealous?_ the sprite taunts.

Sylvain spits out an angry curse, and his world whirls again.

~*~

Dedue. Dedue Molinaro, to be complete. The stone-carved name is followed by a couple of numbers that don’t make sense, until they do.

It’s written on a tombstone in the monastery. 

Sylvain opens his mouth to call bullshit again, but his words are cut off. 

_He threw himself in front of an enemy blade. To save his liege, of course. That should not surprise you._

_“I didn’t—I didn’t have anything to do with the tragedy of Duscur! How could I? This has nothing to do with me, and you’re full of it.”_

_He died in a battle against thieves during your schooling. He was loyal, but he failed to value himself in the slightest. Does that sound familiar? He did not know how to rely on his friends. At least, not enough to save him._

Another memory surfaces, and this one is a real memory, not one of these fucking “what if” scenarios: Sylvain remembers Dedue telling him that Sylvain saw him as a person, not just someone from Duscur. He stays quiet; he doesn’t have any words for this.

~*~

Another dinner in a ruined monastery. Dimitri isn’t there. Forks scrape against dishes; the silence is awkward and tight.

Finally, someone speaks. They are talking about the decision that will have to be made: Enbarr or Fhirdiad? Defeat Edelgard or tend to the Kingdom? Byleth is silent and introspective, considering their advice carefully given the weight Dimitri seems to place on it. Well, used to place on it.

Sylvain makes a derisive noise. _“Pfft. I haven’t been able to reach him at all. When Dimitri became—whatever he’s going through—he’s one who’s got to be better off without having met me. It certainly can’t be worse.”_ It still hurts, even though Dimitri isn’t here. 

_Shall I show you Dimitri, then?_

Rapid-fire scenes, almost too quick to process. 

Mercedes reaching for Dimitri, only to be brushed off, with more cruelty than Sylvain expects. Byleth, pleading with Dimitri and then surrendering to tears in their office, alone. Felix, refusing to even try, furtively packing a bag. Annette, shaking her head in defeat over him; giving up. 

Sylvain digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to make it stop.

_They are small changes, aren’t they? But they matter._

~*~

 _Mercedes_. It’s more of a thought than a picture, at least so far, and Sylvain dreads what’s inevitably coming.

_This one, too, is notable through her absence._

_“The idea that all my friends would be dead without me is stupid. Not believable. Try again. Besides, weren’t you just bitching at me for trying to be a meatshield?”_ Sylvain can feel his heart pounding in his chest, which is laughable and weird given his current state, but mostly he just feels raw and exposed; he’s not even able to deflect things with charm anymore, and that’s saying something.

_Not all._

The scene plays out in front of him; the reconstituted Blue Lions decide to fight the Empire now and search for Rhea later. Mercedes frowns. 

“I’m afraid I will not be joining you.” Her head tips down and to the side in regret.

_Her duties to the Goddess are stronger than her ties to her friends. At least in this reality._

_"So? Maybe she was right.”_ Sylvain spreads his arms in impatience. 

_And how do you think she fared out there, on her own?_

Not a battlefield, this time, just a dim evening along a wooded path. There’s an arrow, and—it’s not quick. Whoever her attacker is, they wait a good long time before Mercedes lets a last, painful breath rip out of her chest in a cry to the Goddess, before they begin looting her bags.

It’s massively unfair, that despite Sylvain’s struggles to get to Mercedes, he doesn’t get any closer, and yet he can feel the tears on his cheeks. 

_"I get it, okay?"_

He's answered not with words, but with a bright light, and when Sylvain opens his eyes again, they feel gritty and real.

~*~

They haven't left him, after all. They've darted over to a little copse off the main field of fighting, and apparently they’ve dragged Sylvain’s unconscious carcass with them. As the trees and the sky and the clouds become clearer, another thing becomes incredibly clear.

Axe wounds _hurt._ Quite a lot, as it happens. Sylvain unintentionally lets a groan slip out of his clenched jaw, and of course that’s what makes Felix’s forehead un-wrinkle itself.

"Don't scare me like that, asshole."

 _Felix_. Sylvain's chest wants to crack open at the sight of him. Well, maybe that's actually a terrible analogy when he's got this kind of injury, which has stopped furiously bleeding somehow. But Felix is looking straight at him, and the hop under Sylvain's breastbone has nothing to do with the rapidly knitting wound. 

Sylvain realizes Mercedes' hands are on him around the same time he starts following Felix's finger with his eyes as instructed. Felix grips Sylvain’s upper arms without saying anything, but gives Sylvain a quick look that speaks volumes. 

And Ashe is—not limping, and Dedue is—he's _here_ , and Sylvain wants to cry, or hug them all, but they won't understand. So he just spits some blood into the dirt and tries to ease his way up onto his elbows, throwing nonchalance in front of him like a shield, like the smiles he's thrown at women he doesn't care about. 

"I'm...assuming we won?"

"Of course we did. Nothing else would be satisfactory." Ingrid grins and ruffles his hair, her armor shining in the sun. 

"Couldn't have done it without you!" Annette's chirpy voice is its own balm. 

Almost without thinking, Sylvain reaches up and wraps his fingers behind Felix’s neck, pulling him down to press their lips together. It’s not the first time they’ve kissed, and it’s not the best kiss. Sylvain’s lips are dry and chapped, and the two of them crash together a little unevenly. Felix rolls his eyes before surrendering, but softens just enough, and leans into it enough, to make Sylvain’s chest swell again.

"Ugh, your mouth tastes like blood." Felix wipes his face on the back of his glove, but the smallest grin quirks at his lips. "Can you stand?"

Sylvain nods, and watches Felix as he climbs to his feet. The sun's behind him, and Sylvain feels the glow around Felix’s outline trace his own body in warmth.

"You're beautiful," he says, as Felix drags him up.

Felix just laughs. "You're a sap."

But the laugh is a light scoff, not mocking, and the hand wrapped around Sylvain's hip squeezes just a little. 

"Come on. Let's go home."

Sylvain watches his friends, the family of his heart, trail along together and reaches down to give Felix's hand a squeeze in return. Dimitri is still standing off to the side, staring at the horizon, but for the first time in a long time, Sylvain has hope.

Home. He's already there. 

**Author's Note:**

> “No man is a failure who has friends,” indeed. Full apologies to Frank Capra. 
> 
> Fits Day 2 of Sylvain Week 2020, for the prompt "horseshoe," which is a happy coincidence, as I had started drafting this and working with the title without looking at the prompts!
> 
> If you got this far, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Comments and kudos are love. Feel free to yell at me about any of these wonderful characters on Twitter @stopmopingstart.


End file.
